


You And I

by Ylith



Series: Ondine [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ylith/pseuds/Ylith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt from the Inception kink meme, and loosely on the mermaid bits of the Lady Gaga video.   Eames lives in a small fishing village, and he stumbles on a wounded merman tangled on the shore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You And I

The water about his ankles was bitter cold as ever. Eames had always loved the gentle tug of the sea against him, begging him to walk just a bit further. Even when he hated the small fishing village as a restless teenager, he’d still loved to stand at the water’s edge and let the sea try to lure him in. It was something he’d done under his father’s watchful gaze when he was a small child, and how he’d found solace when his father passed eight years ago. 

Eames had always dreamed of leaving, but had found no solace in the cities he’d believed held the key to his happiness. When he father died, he’d felt almost a relief at having a reason to return without being seen a failure. Now he was poor Eames, thoughtful Eames, who came to help his mother and take over his father’s business. The subsequent death of his mother only increased their sympathies and for a time ladies of the village brought him food, batted their eyes and stroked his arm. Then they’d smile and let their fingers grip at his muscles cultivated by hard labor and remark how his small thatch cottage could use a woman’s touch. He might offer them a smile in return, but eventually they stopped visiting; stopped calling to see if he needed anything from the market or a pint at the pub.

Now Eames was left alone as he’d come to prefer it, the sea his sole companion. 

The water caressed his feet and legs, the initial cold bite abated. He’d rolled his trousers to just under the knee before walking onto the beach, only the very bottoms dampened by a few of the stronger swells. He breathed in the salt air which was thick around him, the setting sun barely breaking through the thick clouds above. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets as he let his head fall back with a sigh. He turned on his heel and continued on down the beach, occasionally flicking at the sand with his toes. He stoops now and then to collect shells despite the fact that the collection he keeps on the back stoop no longer fits in the bucket. 

A flash of blue near some driftwood catches his eye, and he moves towards it. He’d had shells of this color before, but never this big. Eames reached down to collect his prize, but stilled when he realized that caught up amongst the driftwood and sand was flesh. An arm extended, fingers somewhat buried amongst the sand. Eames stilled for a moment, his eyes following along the arm until he saw tousled hair, damp with seawater and mussed with grit. 

 

He’d seen a body, once before. He’d been a boy and had seen it on the beach on the way to his father’s fishing boat. He remembered the look of the boated skin, the blue lips. Drowning had made the body look almost like it came from the sea and hadn’t survived on land. Like a jellyfish. 

The arm before him looked dry, skin topped with white flakes and sand which blew off when a breeze picked up. The face he bared after wiping away a section of dirty hair was dry as well, lips cracked and raw, but not blue. There was a cord wrapped around the neck, netting from the look of it. Eames followed the line of it across the young man’s, for that was what he was, chest and over his arm, wrapped about the large piece of driftwood which pinned him down. Eames’s eyes moved back up to the dry bow shaped lips and over what had been a handsome face, high cheekbones and dark full brows very different than Eames’s, long dark lashes revealed half open eyes. Eames felt the breath ripped from his chest when he realized the eyes were looking right at him, immediately scrambling forward when the eyes shifted over his face and the lips parted in the barest of sighs. 

He was alive.

 

Eames hastily pressed two fingers to the boy’s throat, feeling for a pulse. He couldn’t tell if he’d found it, but he could see the slim chest rise and fall, a raspy sound escaping the parched lips. The netting was digging into the boy’s throat, the skin around it raw and split. Eames’s fingers hovered over his throat, not wanting to hurt him but knowing he’d have to remove the netting. He quickly reached into his trousers and pulled out the pocket knife he kept there and opened it. His hands weren’t as steady as he would have liked while performing such a delicate task. 

“Sorry darling,” he whispered before working a finger between the netting and the damaged skin beneath. The boy barely had the strength to so much as shudder, but Eames could nevertheless feel those dark eyes boring into him as he delicately severed the cord and peeled it away. There was blood dotted on his fingers as he carefully cut at the netting to remove it from the poor boy’s chest and arms. 

Eames’s fingertips ghosted over raised lines atop the boy’s ribcage, too perfectly straight and parallel and unframed by angry red flesh to have been caused by the net. The skin there was smooth and cold, soft to the touch. 

“Can you sit up?” Eames asked, already sure of the answer but asking all the same. The boy made no reply or attempt to move. Eames reached a hand forward, tentatively brushing sand and hair from the boy’s eyes. The he had similar slits under his cheekbones as he did on his ribs, though these were smaller and finer. Eames’s thumb brushed over one, but it seemed to cause no pain. 

Upon further examination, he realized the youth was likely older than he originally assumed. His slim form and smooth yet dry skin was that of a boy but his shoulders were broad and his eyes far from those of a child. “Let’s get you up,” Eames said softly, moving on his knees so he could lift the large pieces of driftwood from the youth’s stomach and hips. He gripped the first piece, lifting carefully in case the young man was injured. His eyes moved down the youth’s flat stomach, over the jut of his hipbones as he breathed in. There was sand and muck marring his skin, mostly crusted dry in the sun and wind. Eames wiped it away carefully with his free hand as the other pushed the driftwood aside. 

Eames carefully brushed away a piece of kelp from about the young man’s hips, the skin beneath his fingers giving way to something much more rough. Eames furrowed his brow and looked down, rubbing gently at the skin and squinting as the waning light glinted off the patch he cleaned. He thought for a moment it was something which had dried upon the young man’s skin, but as he moved lower towards where the youth’s groin should be there were only....scales.

Eames’s eyes slid to the remaining wood and kelp and quickly brushed them aside, revealing a long tail, at the bottom a two pronged fin flickered weakly against the sandy beach.

Eames jerked away, stumbling against the beach before scrambling to his feet. His breath came hard in his throat as he looked at the creature before him; his vision swimming until he squeezed his eyes shut and willed them to focus. He glanced around the beach, looking to see if anyone else was there to confirm such a finding. A flash of relief struck him, growing in his chest as he looked down at the prone figure still slumped against the beach, too mangled and drained to move. The creature looked up at him, brows barely knit in confusion. Its breath was coming quickly now, shallow pants raspy and thin. 

Eames looked down at his hands, eyes wide in disbelief when he saw the shimmer of bits of scale sticking to his palms and fingers. He studied the tail now and found it to be as mangled as the creature’s body, patches of scale missing or flaking away. He sank to his knees, lips parted in awe as he trailed fingers just above the scales. He gingerly pressed against the creature’s hips where the scales began to scatter and regress into the smooth skin. 

Eames gasped in wonder, unable to give voice to his revelation even as he looked upon him with his own two eyes. He smoothed back the hair from the creature’s forehead, once again finding those dark eyes which had not once shifted their intense gaze. Eames carefully pulled up the creature by the shoulders, sliding one arm across his back. The other he guided beneath the brittle fin, heaving up with a great exhalation of breath as he lifted the sea creature into his arms. “There we are then, darling,” he said with a soothing chuckle. The creature made no move to hold onto him, hanging limp in his arms, his weight much more than Eames had anticipated. The great tail had heft. 

He brought the creature to the water’s edge, walking up to his knees before gently lowering him into the sea. He kept his arms about him and leaned him back until the water engulfed him, as though fearful this an elaborate rouse gone bad, and the cleverly costumed youth would drown. 

The gesture was hollow though, as the second the creature was enclosed in his mother sea, the slits about his face and chest burst open, his eyes going wide as a drowning man with a first taste of air. His head flew back, tail flicking contentedly as it drank in the moisture it had been deprived of for Eames didn’t know how long. He almost wanted to laugh aloud seeing the life come back to the youth, for despite the scales and slits he seemed more a man now as his eyes rolled back in ecstasy at being able to breathe again. 

Wondering what would happen, Eames carefully released his hold on the youth, poised to grab him in case he tried to make his escape. The youth merely sank back onto the sand beneath, though, arms cast out weakly to rest beside him. His tail fluttered a bit, but he did not swim. A finely boned hand slowly made its way to the youth’s throat and the ragged marks there. He looked up at Eames through the flowing waters and implored him, begged him for help with his dark soulful eyes. 

Eames smiled, something he had not done in a long time before once more glancing up the beach to ensure they would not be interrupted by and unwelcome guests. “Alright darling” he said to the sea, reaching back down and once more gathering the youth once more in his arms. “Let’s get you mended, then.” 

The creature was still limp in his arms, but his head fell forward to rest against Eames’s chest, eyes closing contentedly. 

 

Eames’s small cottage stood right off the beach. It was a simple fisherman’s abode, with a thatch roof and walls which could use a layer of whitewash. It was small with little room for privacy. It had been nearly impossible to explore himself as a boy with his mother and father always a mere few feet away. Even though they had both now passed, Eames felt their presence in the house to such an extent that he couldn’t bring himself to smoke inside. His parents never minded if he had a pint, but his mother had chided him for drinking straight from a bottle of whisky. Just the other night he’d sat on the front stoop taking another idle swig from a bottle he half expected his mother to lean out just enough to hit him upside the head with a folded up tea towel. He’d been hit by a pang of loneliness when she didn’t. 

Needless to say, he never found it an option to bring the sea creature into the house. Instead, he carried him round to the barn. The structure was old but solid, and private. His father had used it to clean and sort his catch before taking it to the local market, and also prepare fish for their own meals to keep the small house less fragrant. Eames himself rarely used it, as the market now had drop spots near the pier. Still though, the second he nudged open the barn door and stepped inside, he could smell the sea. 

The sorting tubs were still inside, all empty now, but more than adequate for his needs. He carefully lay his sea creature down into one, weak arms clinging to him but unable to hold on when Eames gently pulled them off. He brushed the sand and scales from his hands as he looked about the barn, eliciting a triumphant chuckle when he found what he’d been looking for. He reached down and collected a large sack, turning it upside down and shaking it hard, beating it against a table to brush out all the dust. The youth flinched at the loud sound, but Eames knew he had to move quickly. He carefully folded the sack into a small square, gently guiding the youth’s head forward just enough to place the makeshift pillow behind his neck. He stopped for just a second to look down and take in the weary form before him. The youth looked up at him with eyes at half mast, not so much fearful as unsure. Eames reached down before he could stop himself, tenderly brushing the dark hair from the youth’s lovely angular face. Dark eyes followed his every move, but he could feel just the slightest nudge forward. 

Eames wanted to stay and sit with him, but the sea sprite’s breaths were shallow again, raspy and dry. He remembered the life that had flooded to him when the creature had been lowered into the water, and immediately stood with a final caress. He grabbed two wooden buckets his father had used to transfer fish and headed down to the shore. He moved with a new urgency as he collected the water, the pails just as hard to lift once filled as he remembered. His father had lifted them with ease almost until the end, never a man for a day without purpose. 

The youth lay prone in the tub, the end of his tail extending over the lip and drooping down along the side. It flickered against the metal tub, sticking damply to it. Eames stood before him, raising one pail and pouring it down into the youth’s belly. The creature’s eyes drifted shut, his head tipped back happily as the water covered him, the gills on his chest and jaw flaring. He breathed in deeply, his chest rising and belly caving in. The fin at the bottom of his tail danced happily against the side of the tub. Once the bucket was empty, Eames raised the other immediately. He repeated this process several times, bringing the sea to the tub and life to his creature’s cheeks. 

When the tub was full and the barn was full of the scent of salt and kelp, Eames sat on a crate next to the tub, a washing rag in his hands and a pot of ointment from the house on his knee. He dipped the rag in a bowl of clean water. He realized how foolish it might be to assume his sea creature’s wounds required treatment in the same manner they would upon his own person, but he also reasoned it couldn’t hurt him any worse. 

Eames placed the pot on the floor, leaning forward as he cleared his throat. “Right then, darling,” he said softly, pressing gentle fingers to the underside of the youth’s chin. “Tip up, there we go.” 

The youth allowed Eames to adjust him, his brows knitting when the movement strained his wounds. Eames reached forward and dabbed the rag against the broken skin at his throat, bits of red and sand coming away as he kept up his ministrations. “How did you manage to get yourself in such a mess?” Eames asked, a brow quirked at his dark haired charge. “You look old enough to know better than play so close to harm’s way...”

A sound of displeasure bubbled from between the youth’s dry lips as his tender skin was agitated by the rag, but he made no move to stop the Englishman. He eyed Eames unblinking, drinking in everything he could about both his surroundings and his savior. 

“Do you speak then?” Eames asked, re-wetting the rag. “Can’t say I know which seems more likely, or beyond belief, as the case may be.” His eyes darted towards the dark tail before him. He turned back to the youth’s face, taking in his features which were better revealed in all their finery now that the grime had been mostly removed. “My, but you are a lovely thing,” he said absently, knowing the poor creature more than likely didn’t understand a word. It must be like dogs and children then, not so much the words as the tone used. His tone seemed to please the youth, who looked more relaxed by the minute, even allowing his eyes a reprieve from their curious wanderings to close in contentment for a moment as Eames gently rubbed the ointment into his wounds. 

Eames was pleased that his attempts at medicine seemed to give the youth some relief, so he continued with his chest and arms, rinsing the wounds before applying the salve. When he was done, he leaned one arm against the lip of the tub, the other idly cupping water and spilling it down onto the exposed flesh and tail before him. 

“I suppose I’ll have to name you,” he said with a mischievous grin, exposing his crooked teeth. He let his fingers drift over the cold scales of the creature’s fin, eyes darting to his to ensure this did not cause him alarm or disturbance. “When I was a boy,” he said, clearing his throat with a cough. “There was a lad in the village who’s family kept a cottage on a small island off shore...surely you know it, seeing as you’re no stranger to these waters.” Another devilishly charming smile was cast for the benefit of someone who likely wouldn’t understand. “One day,” he continued, letting a small handful of water trickle through his fingers onto the youth’s chest. “His older brother, a right wanker, somehow convinced him that they should take their father’s small boat and go to the island. I never had brothers so I don’t know what ridiculous reason it could have been. Well the little fool goes along, but his brother, once they’ve arrived, quickly sneaks back into the boat and rows away, leaving his brother behind. Again, lord knows why, but that’s how it happened. So this lad, who certainly wasn’t more than ten or something, panics when he realizes he’s been left behind with no way home and no way to call for help.” Eames eyed the youth, who was watching him intently, expression unreadable. 

“I’m sure his brother just intended to leave him alone for a few hours, get him good and terrified, and then go back and get him. This little boy though, decides to swim home. Now mind you, this is a very long way and the current gets rather strong, but he made it all the way home. I remember my mother telling my father this story, and telling him how the boy had to be part fish to survive. Arthur, he was called. Fitting for you, don’t you think?”

The youth just gazed at Eames’ hand, watching it make its journey from under the water to his tail. He raised a tired arm, water beading off of it as he raised two fingers to touch the bared skin of Eames’ forearm. He seemed pleased with the sensation, trailing the tips of his fingers down to Eames’ wrist and over the back of his hand. 

Eames smiled, allowing the youth to explore him. He reached his other hand up, his fingers threading through the merman’s drying dark locks of hair. “What am I going to do with you, Arthur?”


End file.
